I haven’t been dreaming much lately, so when I do, it’s kind of like a lead pipe over the head – you remember it later.

Thursday morning, I seemed to be on some sort of bowling league with some friends and we were losing horribly. The worse my teammates did, the better I bowled, simply by willing it to be. I remember drinking beer and having to use the restroom, so I excused myself.

The whole dream seemed like I was viewing it through a piece of scratched glass with dirt around the edges, creating this awesome textured effect. The colors seemed to be muted and earthy, giving me great comfort, and there were splashes of red on things of interest – like our bowling shirts.

Going into the bathroom, I noticed a very handsome, bald goateed janitor putting a mop and bucket into a side closet and giving me a raised eyebrow and smile. I thought nothing of it, peed at the urinal, and went to wash my hands. I glanced up into the mirror and noticed that the humpy janitor had removed his faded blue coveralls and stooped over the toilet in the darkened stall of one of the toilets in nothing but a pair of thick grey boot socks. His hole looked absolutely moist and it looked like he’d been fucked a lot. Not only was it glistening, but it was downright hairy. He looked over his shoulder at me and I could tell he was grinning even though his shoulder covered the view of his mouth.

The air felt electric and I remember hearing the dim fluorescent lights in the ceiling humming and popping and flickering. The view got really close to my eyes and they dilated and the camera view spun around to the back of my head to show the hair on my neck standing on end.

I dove into his ass face first, easily pushing my tongue up his pucker. He grunted and bucked on my face and asked me if I was going to fuck him. Without saying a word, I release my cock from my jeans and push against his hole easily gaining entry. I remember thinking to myself in the dream, “man… I love guy’s asses.”

Soon after this there was some sort of waking realization that I knew I was dreaming and that my dick was incredibly fat and wrapped in something. I continued to buck my hips as I slowly woke, finding I’d cleverly enveloped myself in a very pleasurable piece of my comforter and was leaking pre-cum all over the place.

I slammed my eyes shut, conjuring that janitor and his hot, sloppy ass. His sounds, his smell, the lighting. I choked one out letting fly 4 thick, fat, ropey strings of jizz – splat, splat, splat… splat on my chest and belly.

I want to wake up like that every morning, except with a sexy, bad-ass motherfucker wrapped around my johnson.

Saturday, it was a day of firsts.

Friends of mine from the UK came to visit. We had a good meal at a local Japanese place where we spent a lot of time talking about food. After filling up on sushi, we went to the Symphony.

The Symphony?

Yes. I’d never been to the non-descript office block type building nor had I ever done valet parking. I had no idea that I was to tip somebody for driving off in my own car, which I think I later paid for not doing. I’m always willing to try new things, so this was really different. I’m not big on classical music, so I spent a lot of time people watching. People had gone out and gotten their hair done and picked out their fancy dress clothes (well, some did) and came out to listen to an orchestra.

I worried about whether to buy a hat to cover my mohawk or how nice I should dress, which I think amused my friends. I amused myself with staring at old ladies who clutched their pearls as I walked by. I felt out of place, but it was in a way that I found humorous. I dressed in simple black.

Overall, these people didn’t look like they knew how to relax. At one point in between the set of music, somebody coughed loudly, which sounded like a dog barking, and I had to concentrate on not laughing out loud. In fact, lots of people were coughing when there was no music, which only ignited my half-joke, half-fear that I may contract tuberculosis.

The inside of the building had been decorated as if old achitecture was brought in to class up the place or the glass and steel building was organically grown up and around an existing structure. Who knew this was here? I certainly didn’t.

During the intermission, we retrieved our pre-ordered drinks – they with gin and tonics and myself with orange juice (I was driving). Lots of people milled about, people on dates, elderly Republican couples out late on a Saturday night, and what we deemed to be a “sugar daddy” and his college age cohort.

Will I do it again? Hmm… maybe not, but at least I can say I did it.

We waited around watching everyone get their car before I got mine. I guess if I had given the rest of my $20 to the attendant, I may have been pushed up in the queue.

I said goodnight to my friends and debated going out. I came home. Probably a good thing, as the next day I spent most of it cleaning my house. Now, if I wanted to have people over, I wouldn’t feel embarrassed.

I come home from work today rather relaxed and happy. It started out really well, as on my way to work I rang the Barber to see how he was and whatnot.

I often watch people from my window who walk by the house. This guy, who looks just like some stupid Chelsea fag – with his pushed into the center hair, designer 5 o’clock George Michael scruff, 70′s fashion sunglasses, plaid summer shorts and open-toed brown sandals – walks his weiner dog over to the front of yard and let’s it shit while he fiddles with his cell phone.

I launch myself out the front door as snarl at him, “You are gonna pick that shit off my lawn, right?”

He pretends not to hear me, thumbing his phone and turns toward me. To look at him was to wish to slap the shit out of him. What he said to me, whose voice which can only be described as someone who only ate the sweetest pink frosted cupcakes while sitting on a gold thread sewn pillow for his “tushie”, set my temper on “Volcano”…

“I.. I… thought it was the curb.”

Incredulous, I shot back, “You gotta be kiddin’ me with that bullshit! You’re 10 feet from the fucking curb, ya pansy!”

It was out there. Floating. Like a Loony-Tunes anvil over his head. He looked more intently at his cell phone, wishing with all the fairy dust he could muster, that it would transform into a tri-corder and beam his candy-ass away. Instead he opted for a Paris Hilton-style “sorry” and waddled away.

He left the turds on my lawn!!!

YaaAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGHHH!!!!! I screamed in my head. Why do people like this exist?!

I’ve vowed, as I know he lives on the next street over, to collect all the dog shit from my yard in a bag and set it on his doorstep. He’ll also get a drive by, with a wave and loud public nick-naming of “Tammy Turdgrass”… or maybe I’ll just leap up on the hood of his car, rip down my pants and just dump right on it.

When doing taxes, it’s always good to not wait until the last possible minute to do them. Before deductions and business expenses, it looks like I owe $28. After deducting travel, square footage of my studio space, art sales, office supplies, any office furntiture or computer equipment, previous year losses and shipping costs – it looks like I’m getting $400 back.

Yea, me!

This next year, I’m going to have to break even or show a profit. Not hard to do, I wouldn’t think with a show coming up and all the work that I typically do during the course of a year.

Good luck on your taxes. May you come out ahead!

I was a little stunned this week. I love when I can let an artist’s work wash over me, consume me and put it’s grip on me. Usually a musician has a couple of good songs that I obsess over for a good period and I add it to the stack of my ever growing collection. With Amy Winehouse, I think every song resonates to the very fiber of my being.

After searching 5 different record stores to have only found the area where this CD should be empty, I started to feel a little concerned that I wouldn’t get my own copy. This thing must be flying off the shelves! Strategy would need to be used and I’d call places to see if I could perhaps get one of the clerks to hold a copy so some doofus who saw she was at the SXSW Festival this year couldn’t put his dirty little mits on it. I managed to track down one where I was sure I wouldn’t be paying some outrageous price for it. Two copies left! So I grabbed it and marched over to the counter and handed it to emo dork clerk.

$12.99 + tax later ($7.99 on iTunes), I had Back To Black, the second release but first American debut for Ms. Winehouse, and I’m literally blown over by the depth and raw power of this 23 year old’s voice. How can somebody so young belt tunes out like that? Lyrically sassy and dripping with emotion, I sit listening to some of the most well crafted pop music I’ve heard in my lifetime and I don’t mean any disrespect. The arangements that harken back to the day of Motown classics such as the Supremes or thick walls of sound from the Phil Spector produced Ronettes are somehow made current and it’s not just that the music lacks all this hisses and pops that one might hear from going through your mom’s and dad’s vinyl collection either. Every song has plucked the sweetest bits from doo-wop, soul, jazz, and ska.

Right out of the blocks, you are confronted by the hip-shaker “Rehab” – a song written in reaction to her management company telling her she drinks too much – so you brace yourself for what you have to get ready for on the rest of the recording.

Despite what may or may not be going on in Amy Winehouse’s personal life, which seems to be all the tabloid press in the UK can talk about, the vocals, arrangements, quality and love for the music genres that have been tapped for this album come highly recommend as this body of work is for anyone looking for something different. If this record doesn’t chart there is something seriously wrong with American ears.